Fleur de la Lumiere
by K M Carroll
Summary: He was not always shy, nor was he romantic, at first. He wrote poetry sometimes, but it was never very good. On his first night in Paris, things begin to change-The metamorphoses of one Jean Prouvaire.
1. The Light Eyed Girl

**A/N: This is my first legitimate attempt to write a Les Miserables fanfic, so be patient; I'll get the characterization right eventually. Jehan will probably be a little OOC at first, but this story is supposed to be about what made him the way he was. **

**More to the point, I feel like I should explain something that could very possibly confuse everyone and blow up the site or something: Whenever I use the term 'Montparnasse' in this story, I'm referring to the Bohemian district of Paris, not the character Montparnasse.**

**Oh yeah, one other thing. I'm not Victor Hugo and I don't own these characters. I hope you enjoy the story anyway!**

Perhaps, Jehan thought as the light-eyed girl cleaned his cuts, he'd taken one too many drinks before wandering into Montparnasse that night. After all, he couldn't have counted on being mugged. It was his first night in the city, and just like any other naïve and stupid boy, he had wanted to explore. Now, because of that, he was sitting on a stranger's kitchen table while she washed the cuts he'd received in a foolishly-picked fight.

"Pardon my asking," said the girl quietly, "but what's a pretty young boy like you got to do in French Bohemia?"

"French Bohemia?" Jehan inquired drowsily.

"Montparnasse," she clarified.

"Oh," he mumbled drunkenly. "I just moved here and I wanted to see the sights."

"Wait until my brothers find you here," she laughed, flipping her short-cut hair out of her eyes. "You're a stupid boy, do you know that?"

Jehan only scowled, as he was still too drunk to offer any other response. This girl couldn't have been more than sixteen, seventeen tops, and here he was already nineteen and living on his own. Who was she to boss him around? His drunken thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps, and he heard the girl mutter, "Speak of the devils," before three boys burst into the kitchen.

"There you are, Luca," one of the boys, the oldest, said. Noticing Jehan, he said, "Who's you're friend?"

"You would find the only male prostitute in Paris, you sly dog, you," another said.

"He's not a prostitute," the girl said. "He's my new pet, and I won't let any of you touch him."

Jehan, who was slipping further and further into a drunken haze, thought that maybe he ought to be mildly offended by Luca calling him her pet. The oldest brother looked at him closely, and after a few minutes, he turned to his brothers to give them instructions.

"Move him to the couch; he's obviously too drunk to move himself."

The two younger boys moved to follow these orders, but Luca stepped in front of them.

"He was badly bruised in a fight," she told them. "Cut up a little, too. Let me move him. I think he's still conscious."

"Come on, pretty boy," she said, turning to Jehan and putting his arm around her little shoulders. "Let's move you over this way."

Jehan woke up a little bit, enough to help Luca move him to the couch. When she laid him down, he gave her a sleepy smile. Her returning eye-roll was the last thing he saw before falling into an absinthe-induced sleep.

Jehan woke the next morning bathed in sunlight and unable to recall the events of the night before. His head was pounding like hell; he had never been _this_ hung over before.

"Finally, you're awake," said a female voice beside him. Jehan jumped and nearly fell off the bed at the sudden noise.

"What the—," he began, turning to face the girl, but her face stirred a memory that made him close his mouth.

"Yeah, I can imagine that hangover's rough. What were you drinking?"

"Absinthe," Jehan groaned, trying to smooth out his hair. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"Three weeks," the girl said lightly.

"Three weeks? That must've one hell of a green fairy."

Luca laughed at him and handed him a clear liquid. "Drink it," she ordered.

"What? No. I'm not drinking anything you're giving me. I've barely met you."

The girl laughed again. "I'm not going to poison you. If I was going to poison you, I would've done it in the three weeks during which you were asleep."

"Was I really asleep for three weeks?" Jehan asked. The girl bit her lip to keep from laughing again.

"Yes, yes you were."

"Hey, Luca," a male voice asked, its owner entering the room just then. "How's that boy you brought in last night?"

Luca glanced down at the floor, her face twisting up into a guilty smirk. Jehan glared at her.

"He's fine, Alexandre. He's awake now, too. Come and say hello to him, won't you?"

Alexandre approached them with a little bit of caution; he still had trouble believing that his sister had brought home a strange man the night before. Regardless, he only stopped walking when he stood beside where Luca sat on the floor.

"_Bonjour_," he said stiffly. "I'm Alexandre Feuilly. It seems my sister has brought you to our house; I hope you had a comfortable sleep."

"_Bonjour_," Jehan returned, offering his hand, which Feuilly shook. "My name is Jean Prouvaire, but most people just call me Jehan. Your sister told me that I've been asleep for three weeks."

"Did she now?" Feuilly asked, smirking and glancing at the girl. "Well, she does like to tease."

"And you've ruined my sport," Luca cut in. "Now I may actually have to meet Monsieur Morrel on time this morning out of sheer boredom."

"It's a good thing, too," her brother told her. "You give that man too hard of a time for how much help he's been to you."

"Monsieur Morrel?" Jehan asked. "Does Mademoiselle have a tutor?"

"Sort of," Luca said. "He teaches me to paint and I help him with things around his studio."

"He only teaches painting? What about the rest of your education?"

Luca laughed once again; Jehan was beginning to discover that this was something she did often.

"You don't know where you are, do you Monsieur Prouvaire?" she asked.

"Montparnasse, right? You called it…French Bohemia last night."

"Impressive," Luca said. "I would have thought you wouldn't remember anything about last night. And yes, French Bohemia is what we call this part of Montparnasse, because it's where the writers and the artists live."

"The women are allowed to take up work here, too?" Jehan asked.

Luca rolled her eyes and scowled. "Contrary to bourgeois belief, Monsieur, we don't all have limp wrists," she snapped. "I'm leaving. Are you coming or what, Monsieur Prouvaire?"

"Coming? Coming where?"

"With me, of course. I'll show you around, since you're so eager to explore."

"I should get back to my flat…"

"I'm sure your landlord won't repossess it if you're gone just one day."

"Fine," Jehan said at last. "I'll go with you."

"Excellent," Luca said with a grin. "Your coat is in the kitchen. I'll be down on the street when you're ready." And with that, she slipped out the door.

_What am I getting myself into?_ Wondered Jehan.

**So…like it? Hate it? Don't be shy! **


	2. Glimpses of the Light to Come

**So, as you may have noticed, I at least have access to a computer, suggesting that I'm still not Victor Hugo. None of Les Amis is mine.**

**In other news, can you spot the Pride and Prejudice reference? **

After grabbing his coat and covertly forcing down Luca's hangover cure, Jehan walked down about six flights of stairs that he couldn't remember climbing up the night before. He found Luca waiting for him, wearing a patchy brown coat that was much too big for her.

"Come on, pretty boy!" she called. "I've got to meet Monsieur Morrel soon!"

"I'm right here," Jehan told her, "and I thought you were going to show me Montparnasse."

"I will," she confirmed, leading him along the street at a fair pace. "However, I do have a painting lesson at which I am expected."

"Am I going to watch you paint?" Jehan asked, confused.

"Oh, no. Monsieur Morrel means for our lessons to be private."

"Then what am I supposed to do with myself during your lesson?"

"I have some friends, well, they're Alexandre's friends, but they paint doors and such in a studio beside Monsieur Morrel's. You can spend the morning with them."

"So you're leaving me with strangers," Jehan said dumbly. "This will end well."

"Afraid of getting mugged again?" Luca asked.

Jehan didn't respond, so Luca pulled ahead. This gave her tail a chance to look her over.

The girl, despite the fact that her modest life bordered on a life of poverty, was well-formed. Beneath her coat, she wore a loosely cut, scarlet dress that brushed the ground. Her hair, cut above her shoulders, was a dark gold color that Jehan had never seen before.

Beyond that which we have listed, that which is apparent at a first glance, the girl had something in her air and manner of walking that radiated confidence. She did not hold herself like a homely girl, so she was not one. Jehan was entranced.

"This is the tanner where Michel works," she explained, leaving Jehan to assume that Michel was one of her brothers. She laughed. "Alexandre sometimes says that Michel is the shame of our little family, since Alexandre and I are painters, Julien is a journalist, and what is Michel? A tanner. Are you an artist at all, Monsieur Prouvaire?"

"I write some poetry," Jehan said sheepishly, "but it's not very good."

"Really? Well, you must write me a verse sometime. Ah! Here we are!" She stopped in front of a low building made of sand-colored bricks. "My brother's friends work in here. Let's go in and introduce you!"

"Mademoiselle Luca, perhaps I should just go back to—," Jehan began, but the girl was already on her way inside. He resigned to follow her, as men must have always done.

They found themselves in a spacious room that had no color to it besides the woodwork left out to dry and the artists themselves; there were two young men who were standing in the back, talking in low voices while they worked.

"Marc!" the girl called. "Etienne!" Both men looked up.

"I've brought you a guest, and I expect you to treat him nicely. He's my bourgeois pet, and I can't watch him while I'm in with Morrel," the girl said with authority. She didn't even ask if they would allow Jehan to stay, but the question hung in the air nonetheless.

"Come right in, Monsieur…" the taller of the two men began.

"Prouvaire," Jehan said.

"Yes, yes. Come on in, Monsieur Prouvaire. My name is Etienne Grantaire, and this is my partner, Marc Debray. Are you new to the quartier?"

Luca cackled when he said this, and turned sweetly to Jehan. "I'll let you tell that story," she said and, after bidding the other two _adieu_, she was out the door."

"What story is she talking about?" asked the one called Grantaire with a grin.

Jehan opened his mouth to respond, closed it again, and then began.

"I wandered into Montparnasse last night after having one too many glasses of absinthe, and I picked a fight with some tramps. Mademoiselle Luca dragged me away and let me sleep on her couch last night."

Debray was chuckling a little bit, but Grantaire burst into full-blown laughter once Jehan had finished his little explanation.

"Too much absinthe," he said with mirth. "Really, Prouvaire, you're quite a joker."

"Our friend Monsieur Grantaire is a champion of drinks," Debray told Jehan. "He's never heard of such a thing as too much absinthe. I fear you've given him a great shock."

"Shut up, you brute," Grantaire snapped in good humor. "You don't want me to make any new friends because you want me all to yourself."

Debray rolled his eyes and returned to his work.

"Tell me, Prouvaire," Grantaire began, seeming to sober up for just a moment, "are you totally unfamiliar with Montparnasse, or do you actually do something creative?"

Debray scoffed. "You have an infallible gift for wording things badly, 'Tienne. That just sounded offensive when you said it."

"Well," Grantaire defended himself, "I want to know."

"_Are_ you an artist?" Debray asked. "I'll admit to being curious."

"I write poetry," Jehan answered simply. This answer was met by a cheer from Grantaire.

"We need more of those!" he exclaimed in a gay tone. "Drinks all around!"

"You were doing so well," Debray groaned. "We almost had him convinced that you're not a raving drunk."

"Shut it, Debray."

"I-it's fine," Jehan stammered. "We have drunks in the bourgeoisie too."

Debray laughed merrily. "I'm starting to think you're good company, M. Poet. You must recite some of your verse for us."

"O-oh no, Monsieur, it's really nothing worth reading aloud," Jehan protested.

"Well I want to hear it!" cried Grantaire, who had uncorked a wine bottle and was drinking straight out of it.

"I don't know any of it by heart."

"Ha! A poet doesn't know his own verse. You have to tell better lies than that here."

"Oh, God, you're not really serious, are you?" Jehan eyed the men wearily.

"I appreciate your modesty," Debray said, "but we live for something to offer us a break from work."

"Just one little couplet?" Grantaire asked with a loopy smile.

"I hope you don't let him paint like that," Jehan commented.

"He calls it 'divine inspiration', and I can't argue with good results."

Grantaire, mumbled some curse words, but he was mostly ignored, and Jehan's poetry was all but forgotten. Over the course of the next half hour, the poet discovered a fondness for both men. They swapped stories and talked about the differences in their lives. This led to a topic that even caused Grantaire to set his wine bottle down.

"Have you seen the poverty in the streets, Prouvaire?" asked Debray.

"I have," Jehan admitted. "It's so much worse here than in the Midi."

"Not everyone around here is an artist," Grantaire said.

"They look so…hungry," Jehan mused. "Their souls were dead behind their eyes. It makes me wish that there was a way that I could help."

"We have a friend," Grantaire began, "who leads meetings in the Café Musain every Tuesday night. If you want—." He was cut off by Luca re-entering.

"_Bonjour!_" she called from the entrance hall. "I hope my new friend hasn't bored you too much."

"Quite the opposite," Debray returned. "It was absolutely delightful to meet you, Prouvaire, and I hope we'll see you again."

Taking his hand to shake it, Grantaire pulled Jehan closer to him. "Ask Alexandre if you're interested in the meetings," he whispered gruffly. "We need every man we can get."

"What secrets do you have now?" Luca asked. "Well, whatever. Come on, pretty boy, we've got to go. I've got practically a whole city to show you."

Luca led him out, and the whole while, Jehan was peering into the faces of the people around him and thinking about these friends at the Café Musain. Was this his chance to make a change?


	3. Muse

**A/N: After three whole chapters, I'm **_**still**_** waiting on my miraculous transformation into Victor Hugo. This is getting crazy, guys.**

**Enjoy!**

Luca spent the rest of the morning showing Jehan all of her haunts—closet-sized salons where poets smoked and talked and argued, galleries with flying gothic ceilings, brothels that were really just gathering places for young women. The whole district was cheerful and relaxed. The people were admittedly very poor and emaciated more often than not, but everyone was smiling despite their hard luck.

As he followed her through the streets of her neighborhood, Jehan watched Luca and realized that somewhere, some man must have her as his muse. How could these artists resist this girl that was so…different? She wasn't for Jehan, since he wasn't enough of a proper artist to have a muse, but she was too iridescent to be ignored by such inspired people.

"It's been an hour, Mademoiselle Luca," he told her. "I apologize, but I really should get back to my own flat."

"You're not staying for supper?" the girl asked, whipping her head around and sending her hair flying around her head like beams of sunlight.

"I don't want to overstay my welcome, or eat any of your food," Jehan explained, before literally biting his tongue. He knew he'd just wounded her pride with his implications.

"We're perfectly capable of feeding an extra person every now and then," she snapped. "But I guess if you have to go, Alexandre will be glad for whatever bits of peace he can get."

"I'm sorry…" Jehan said.

"What's to be sorry about?" she demanded a little too brightly. "If you have to go, you have to go! In fact, you can leave now. Do you know your way home?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to your brother, about something those men mentioned—."

Luca stopped in her tracks, and her eyes lit up with a new and ferocious anger that bordered on fury.

"You aren't talking about those meetings, are you?" she asked in a dangerously low voice.

"I—I was, b-but…"

She grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and brought his face down close to hers. "Don't you dare mention those boys to Alexandre; don't you dare encourage him. All of them are going to get themselves killed on some alter to their 'Patria.' None of those stupid bourgeois brats even understand Alexandre! They don't know what life is really like for us."

"You don't even know what they're fighting for!" Jehan exclaimed, stung by her comment about the bourgeois. He wrenched himself out of her grip.

"It doesn't matter what they're fighting for," Luca snapped. "They shouldn't be fighting at all; they're just school boys, most of them. That leader of theirs can't be more than eighteen."

Jehan stammered incoherently for a moment, until Luca grabbed his arm and pulled him along.

"Where do you live?" she asked. "I just remembered that you were probably too drunk last night to remember how you got here."

He told her his address, and then they walked in silence until they were well out of Montparnasse. Finally, she spoke up.

"I apologize for having a nervous breakdown on you, Prouvaire."

"That's fine. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No, no," she insisted. "There wasn't any way that you could have known, and, to be honest, I could be over-reacting. They're really only meetings right now. I'm sure Monsieur Enjolras, their leader, wants to stage an insurrection, but he has some pretty strong opposition, the way Alexandre tells it."

"Insurrection?" Jehan repeated. "Debray and Grantaire only told me that they wanted to help the poor."

"They want to overthrow the monarchy," Luca said. "They have support, too. But trust me, Prouvaire; everyone else would be too scared to aid them in an armed revolt."

"It's happened before," said Jehan, thinking of '93.

"And that turned out really well, didn't it?" Luca scoffed.

"So you're saying Grantaire lied to me?"

"No, not really. Overthrowing the monarchy really would help the poor, if they could manage it. However, I don't think they could."

"Have you given up hope, then?" Jehan asked. He found himself sympathizing with the rebels he'd never met.

"No," she said again. "I plant my hope in other, happier places."

"Like in your painting?"

"Exactly. Morrel sometimes tells me that if you want to trust in something, you have to make it yourself. Have you ever played music, Prouvaire?"

"No. My mother kept a pianoforte, but I never learned, but she used to play beautifully. Why? Do you play?"

"Not the pianoforte. Alexandre got me a flute for my birthday present, and he's been trying to teach me on his days off. I'm only asking because it's the most wonderful feeling in the world. It's something to put hope in."

"You make it sound kind of magical," Jehan said. "And in so few words, too. How do you learn to put things like that?"

"It's kind of in the atmosphere of the quartier. Are you asking for the sake of your poems?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Being around all of you today has made me feel horribly mediocre, even if I will be studying at La Sorbonne in a few months."

"You'll pick up on it if you come back enough," Luca said casually, "and I do expect you back, Prouvaire. I might yell at you sometimes, but you really are good company."

"I feel the same way about you, Mademoiselle Luca. I'll be sure to see you again."

"Here's your flat, Prouvaire," she said, pulling to a stop. "I'll see you soon."

"Should I write before I—," Jehan began, but Luca was already on her way down the street.

"Sorry to run like this, Prouvaire, but Morrel thinks I've been out running errands all this time!"

"Luca!" he scolded with a smile on his face. She grinned back, and then turned a corner out of sight.

Jehan was still smiling when he reached his rooms. Yes, he certainly would be returning to the home of the light-eyed girl. Maybe he would ask her older brothers about the meetings Grantaire was talking about, too. He shuffled through his mail, which he had picked up on the way upstairs, and sighed contentedly. Then, he took a pen out and wrote his first good verse in years:

_The noontime sun is in her hair;  
Her eyes soak in the day.  
She sheds her sunlight everywhere;  
Don't dare stand in her way. _

**A/N: Hope you all enjoyed my attempt to steer Luca away from Mary Sue territory. Remember, any and all feedback is appreciated!**


	4. Turnabouts

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys. I…don't have a very good excuse, unless you count writers' block and ADHD. **

**Anyway, the chapter's not that long, simply because I'm grasping for something to happen outside of Jehan's relationship with the Feuilly family. Any suggestions are totally welcome. Enjoy!**

Jehan sighed There was literally _nothing_ to do in his flat. He had stayed up half the night trying (and failing) to come up with more verses for the poem he had started, and then he had slept until noon, which was really very pleasant, and now? Now, he was sitting on his couch and staring out the window in the direction of Montparnasse.

"Perhaps I'll go and take a walk," he said to himself. When he had decided on this, he set down his pen and grabbed his coat. The early June air was warm but not too hot, and it made Jehan wonder why he should be condemned to wear a coat when it might make him sweat. This train of thought was not common for him, and it surprised him a little, but he continued down this thread to wonder why women were required to wear such heavy skirts in such heat, and to pity them. Once again, this wasn't normal. He questioned the change for a moment before moving on.

"A sou for my child, Monsieur?" a beggar woman called to him as he approached her.

Jehan, who had spent eighteen years walking past beggars with his nose in the air, stopped and pulled a five-franc piece out of his pocket. "Here," he told the woman.

"Thank you, Monsieur! So generous!" the beggar cried. "How good you are, Monsieur. Thank you!"

She grinned toothlessly at him before rushing off towards where four children, presumably hers, were standing. Jehan walked on, but he could not get her face, her smile, out of his head. Before he knew it, his mind was spinning rhymes out of control, and he had to make a mad dash back to his flat to write them down before he forgot them all. He didn't even have time to take off his blasted coat before he grabbed his pen from under the coffee table (he had thrown it there in a rage the night before) and started scribbling on his paper.

It took him an hour to, first of all, sort out everything in his head, and then organize it into verse. When he was done, he had only two more stanzas of his poem from the night before.

_Her soul, a self-sustaining flame.  
She hopes, and knows no fear.  
She smiles at life, that cheerless game.  
Her future is not clear._

_Perhaps, I'll take her as a muse.  
Perhaps she will inspire  
A flame in me that I can use  
To wake up lost desire._

Jehan put his pen down, not entirely satisfied but too hungry to care. Again, he grabbed his coat (which he had flung off of his shoulders in a poetic frenzy) and headed towards the city center.

He was wandering through the merchants' district when someone called his name.

"Hey! Prouvaire!"

He turned and saw Alexandre Feuilly running towards him. "Feuilly!" he exclaimed.

"My sister came home screaming at me yesterday," the man told him.

"I'm so sorry," Jehan said. "I shouldn't have brought up what Grantaire told me."

"How could you have known?" Feuilly asked. "If you're interested, though, I could take you to meet some of the men."

"I hardly know what the meetings are about," Jehan said. "Luca and Grantaire have given me such mixed stories that I don't know what to believe."

"Let's not talk about this here," Feuilly murmured. "I think I can find Enjolras, if you're willing to walk a little further for your lunch."

"Uh, sure, I guess."

Jehan allowed himself to be led to a café on the corner of an unfamiliar street. Feuilly entered first and headed straight to the back of the main room. He opened a door that led to a narrow passageway.

"Where exactly are you taking me?" Jehan asked.

"To our revolution," Feuilly whispered with a smile.

The passageway dead-ended at a small door, which Feuilly opened with a small key.

"Come on in," the man invited, and Jehan hardly thought as he entered a small room full of men who appeared to be no older than he.

"That one in the corner," Feuilly said, pointing to an angelic figure near the back, "is our leader, Marcelin Enjolras. There beside him is Dorian Combeferre, and Sebastian Courfeyrac is the one playing dominoes across the room. Shall I introduce you?"

Jehan nodded.

"Enjolras," Feuilly called. The angel-man looked up. "This is my sister's friend Monsieur Prouvaire. Come and speak to him, won't you?"

Enjolras stood up from his seat in the shadows, appearing now as a tall, blond fellow instead of a seraph. The one Feuilly had called Combeferre stood with him, and both walked towards the newcomer.

"Dorian Combeferre," the man said, reaching out his hand once the pair had reached Jehan.

"Jean Prouvaire," he returned. "I'm sorry, Messieurs, but I've only come to find out a little more. A Monsieur Grantaire mentioned you to me first, and then Mademoiselle Feuilly screamed at me about overthrowing the French monarchy. If you'll excuse me, I'm very confused."

"Not a problem at all," Combeferre told him. Enjolras was yet to speak. "Why don't you sit?"

The students told him exactly what they were doing, and Jehan thought it sounded a little more like what Luca had described than the pretty picture Grantaire had painted for him. All the same, he left the back room feeling moved by Enjolras' passionate words and thoroughly convinced by Combeferre's rational ones. He decided that he would return. Sure, the little painter in the back of his head was screaming furiously at him, but what was a girl going to do to stop him from changing the world?


	5. A Pendant Stirs Some Trouble

**A/N: You're going to meet the other Feuilly brothers in this chapter, so I'm just going to refer to them by their names: Alexandre is the one that we know and love, Michel is the middle brother, and Julien is the youngest. **

**I forgot to mention this last chapter, but I'm thinking of filing a lawsuit against that guy who swore that he could turn me into Victor Hugo, because I'm still not him, and I still don't own the rights to any of his characters. **

**Enjoy Luca being a spaz!**

It was not long before Luca showed up in front of Jehan's apartment building, demanding that he come to dinner at her flat.

"Alexandre's current girl is coming, and I _hate_ her," she explained dramatically. "You need to come over right away, to keep me from going insane."

"O-okay," Jehan mumbled. "Let me go and put on my nice coat."

"There's not time!" Luca cried, pulling him along.

"Fine!" Jehan exclaimed. "I'll go now. Just let go of me."

"Also," the girl said while she was busy retrieving a silver-colored necklace from her bag, "you gave me this pendant, and we're madly in love."

"Luca, what the hell?"

"We're going to be married in a few months."

"No one will believe this, Mademoiselle," Jehan told her, once more in formal French. "It's only been a week since we met!"

"Good God, Prouvaire, you woo those ladies quickly then, don't you?"

"You're beyond reason!" Jehan cried, frustrated.

"So you'll do it?" Luca asked.

"Fine. If you teach me how to play the flute."

"Great! I was planning on doing that anyway. Come on, we're going to be late."

She took his hand and raced towards Montparnasse, nearly bowling people over as they tried to go about their daily business.

"Luca!" Jehan snapped when they'd nearly tripped up a few students leaving a café. "Slow down!"

"I can't, Alexandre thinks I'm in the kitchen right now!"

"How the—never mind. You're ridiculous."

"And I know it," she sang.

They reached the Feuillys' flat in record time, and they would've gotten there faster, apparently, if it weren't for Jehan's 'bourgeois slowness and self-control.' Alexandre did not see Luca enter, but she had instructed Jehan to knock on the door properly.

"Prouvaire," Alexandre greeted him once he'd opened the door. "Luca didn't tell us she was inviting you."

"I don't mean to impose, but—," Jehan began.

"Don't say anything more about it. I'm sure you couldn't have turned down her invitation if you'd wanted to. Please, come in."

Alexandre moved aside so that Jehan could enter, revealing a pretty girl who sat on the couch.

"Prouvaire, this is Mademoiselle Armelle Dubois. Armelle, this is our friend, Monsieur Jean Prouvaire."

"Are you Luca's—," Mademoiselle Dubois began to ask, but she was cut off by Luca's entrance.

"Jehan!" Luca cried. "You're here. I've missed you since I last saw you. I'm so glad you got my letter!" She wrapped her arms around her neck, causing Jehan to blush.

Alexandre coughed. "Luca," he chastised awkwardly.

"Oh, hush, Alexandre," his sister told him. "Don't act like you didn't do the same thing when Armelle got here."

"But Prouvaire is—," Alexandre began.

"Shushushush," Luca snapped. It was all that the men could do to eye her with baffled expressions. She continued talking as if she couldn't see them. "Anyway, dinner is almost ready. Where are Michel and Julien?"

"They should be getting home any moment now," Alexandre said.

Luca huffed. "Michel was supposed to help me with the chicken. He knows I can never get it right."

"Maybe he had to work late," Mlle Dubois offered.

Luca gave her a look that clearly said '_No one asked you, you fat cow_' before returning to the kitchen.

"Perhaps I should try to be of help in there," Jehan said, making to follow the girl.

"Please, stay," Alexandre told him. "She just needs to burn off steam. Go ahead and have a seat."

Jehan sat down on the sofa next to Mlle Dubois.

"Are you courting our Luca?" the girl asked.

He began to say no, but remembered Luca's pendant. "Yes," he told her instead.

"That's lovely," she said. "Honestly, it's so nice that Luca's found herself a good man. She needs a little control in her life."

Jehan, thoroughly confused by the façade he was trying to keep up, nodded. He was starting to see why Luca didn't like Alexandre's girl.

Thankfully, the two younger Feuilly boys arrived then. Both were brawny like their oldest brother, with his same dark red hair. They were laughing with each other as they entered and bowed exaggeratedly to Mlle Dubois. She seemed charmed. Luca called them all in to dinner a few minutes later.

They all sat around a small, round table. Luca was on one side of Jehan, and Michel sat on the other. Beside Luca, Mlle Dubois and Alexandre held hands, and Julien completed the circle.

"How was work today?" Feuilly asked his younger brothers after he said Grace.

"Had a whole new shipment come in," Michel answered. Jehan remembered that he was a tanner. "Lots of work to do."

"Julien?"

"Bernard was a jackass about paying us, as usual. Other than that, though…"

"That's good. Luca, I hope you didn't give Monsieur Morrel too many problems today."

"Me?" Luca asked. "Give Morrel problems? Never."

"That's not what he tells me," Alexandre grumbled. Luca only laughed.

"How were things at the sweat shop?" the younger girl asked Mlle Dubois.

"She doesn't work in a sweat shop, Luca," Alexandre reprimanded. "She's a seamstress."

"As you say, brother. How was it, though?"

"Nothing special," Mlle Dubois told her.

"Just thought I'd include you in all of this family stuff," Luca said.

"That's very thoughtful," Mlle Dubois remarked sweetly.

"If we're going to include her," Julien commented through stuffed cheeks, "then we should include Prouvaire. Get into any good fights today?"

"Drink any good absinthe?" Michel added.

"Quiet, both of you," Luca snapped. "_I_ want to hear about Jehan's day."

"I went to the café for lunch, and wrote a few verses. I scarcely have anything to do with myself until classes begin in the fall."

"When do they start?" Julien asked.

"September, I believe."

"September! What are you going to do with yourself for three whole months?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"You should spend your free days down here," Luca told him. "I don't have much to do or anyone to talk to after my lessons with Morrel."

"You're welcome here any time, Prouvaire," Alexandre agreed.

"Thank you," Jehan said. "I suppose I might stop by sometimes. I do love your company, Luca."

Luca's responding smile bordered on a smirk as she leaned over to whisper something in Mlle Dubois' ear. The older girl blushed. "So soon?" she hissed back in a voice that Jehan could barely discern over the clatter of dishes.

"I can't say anything for certain, but I think he really likes me," Luca whispered.

"You're so young!"

"Well, the bourgeois generally like to marry their children off early. Maybe he doesn't know any better."

"He's only a student!"

"You can stop armies, but you can't stop love."

Jehan was nearly positive that Luca had intended for him to hear that entire conversation. He shook his head and kept at his peas.

After dinner, the men gathered in the salon; Luca had been left to clean the dishes. Jehan had offered to help her, and she would have accepted if it weren't for Alexandre's interruption in favor of keeping him for conversation. Instead, Mlle Dubois was allowed to keep her company.

"I didn't see you at the Musain this week," Alexandre said in a tone that would have been casual, had it not been so low—it was clear that he did not want Luca to overhear.

"I had other engagements," Jehan explained.

"I thought you said you were without occupation," Julien commented.

"I—well, it's just that—oh, forget it. I didn't think Luca would approve."

"You don't have to keep up whatever crap Luca's got you pretending," Alexandre told him. "Is there another reason you aren't coming? Is it Enjolras? He can come on a little strong…"

"No," Jehan said. "No, it's only that…I don't know much about the cause, and I don't know what my own opinions are, and just…Please understand. I don't mean you or Enjolras or any of the others any harm when I don't come to the meetings. I'm just…unsure."

"That's understandable," Alexandre murmured. "Shall we move onto lighter subjects, then?"

The four men talked leisurely for about an hour before Luca and Mlle Dubois reappeared.

"I suppose I'd better walk Monsieur Prouvaire home," Luca announced. "It's getting late."

"That's true," Alexandre said. "Shall I take you home, Armelle?"

"I would like that," the girl consented.

Together, the four of them left the tenement, and then split to take their separate routes. Before Alexandre and Mlle Dubois were out of sight, Luca pulled Jehan to her and kissed him.

"Luca, what the hell?" Jehan asked for the second time that day. She just rolled her eyes and kissed him again. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm kissing you," she said. "Isn't that what soon-to-be-betrothed people do?"

"Yes, but," here Jehan lowered his voice, "we aren't anything like betrothed." She kissed him yet again. "Stop kissing me!"

"Why should I?" she asked.

"Because it's indecent, and I've only known you a little while."

"What should that matter? It's just a kiss."

"Just a kiss?"

"Oh, I forgot. You still have that bourgeois notion of propriety shoved up your—."

"Luca, shut up! And stop that!" Jehan demanded.

"Make me," she teased before kissing him again.

"Luca…"

"Come on, Jehan." _Kiss._ "I won't stop kissing you until you kiss me back."

"Luca." _Kiss._ "Luca stop! Luca—." He cut himself off this time, pressing his lips to hers briefly, praying that it would make her give up kissing him.

It certainly shut her up.

"Are you done now?" he asked.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it…"

Jehan groaned and buried his blush in his hand.

"Take me home, Luca."

"Okay." Her face bore a full-blown smirk now.

Jehan would've liked it, perhaps, if they were silent as they walked, but Luca had other ideas, as usual.

"Did you see what I don't like about Armelle?" she asked.

"I guess so."

"She's so…proper."

"And, as we have learned, you're the opposite."

"Shut up. But seriously, don't you think she looked like she had a pole shoved where a pole shouldn't be shoved?"

"That's not nice…"

"But it's true, isn't it?"

"I could definitely see why you'd be offended by her, just because of a couple of things she said to me."

"Like what?"

"Well, she told me that she thought it a good thing that you had such a 'good young man' in your life—that you needed control."

"Ugh, that little—," Luca took off swearing in Argot now, unable to restrain her fury.

"Calm down, Luca," Jehan ordered. "She's just Alexandre's current girl, right? She'll be gone in a few months."

"Alexandre talks about marrying her sometimes," Luca snapped bitterly. "That's why I told her that we were getting married."

"Luca, you're being childish."

"I'm being completely non-childish, and even if I _was_ being childish, it's okay because I'm only sixteen. What's your excuse?"

"I'm not being childish."

"Or are you?"

"I'm changing the subject."

"Afraid you'll lose?"

"More like afraid that I'll accidently stoop down to your level."

"I thought you were changing the subject."

"So I've written a few good verses lately…"

"Now it's too late!"

"Luca!"

They continued to fight like children all the way back to Jehan's flat, but stopped abruptly when they reached it.

"Good night, Prouvaire," Luca said quietly.

"Goodnight, Luca."

They looked at each other, and somehow, their lips met briefly. Jehan felt his eyes sliding closed, and Luca began to smile against his lips. He was moving a hand up to cup her face when she pulled away unexpectedly.

"Good night, Prouvaire," she said again, before rushing off into the night.

Either Jehan was dreaming already, or Luca's face had started to turn red before she ran away.


	6. A Starting Place

**A/N: I like to call this chapter 'Extreme Makeover: Luca Edition,' but I just…couldn't find it in me to post it under that. We'll start to recognize our Jehan soon, I think.**

"First things first, Prouvaire," Luca began. "You don't focus enough time on your art, and you dress too fashionably."

It had been roughly three days since that strange dinner at the Feuillys', and now Jehan was sitting in their parlor again, listening to Luca give him instructions on being an artist.

"I fail to see how that last one is a problem," Jehan said.

"Does your mother still pick out your clothes?" she demanded, ignoring him. "You need some flair, originality. You're too shy with your color choices."

"Have I ever told you you're ridiculous?" Jehan asked.

"Too many times for me to ever suspect that you've forgotten it," she replied cheekily.

"So I don't spend enough time writing poetry, and I dress too well. Forgive me, but I thought you said there were no rules to art."

"That's just something we say to lure innocent bourgeois like you in. Besides, I'm just teaching you _my _rules. What you end up doing will be totally up to you."

"I don't know if I believe you, but continue anyway. I know I can't stop you."

"He can be taught!" Luca cried. "Let's go see if Alexandre has anything interesting for you to wear."

"I hope you know I'm not wearing this," Jehan said as he looked down at the apparel Luca had chosen for him. She'd stolen his waistcoat and his cravat, replacing them with a hunter's jacket and a thick green scarf. "It's the middle of summer."

"Well, what will you wear?" she asked impatiently.

"My own clothes."

"They're boring!" she exclaimed.

"Well, I've always liked last century," Jehan offered.

This made her whole face light up. "Perfect!" she cried. "I know a place where you can get that. You brought your change purse, right?"

"Couldn't we have started with the poetry?"

"We could have, I suppose," she mused, suggesting something almost hopeful, "But we didn't, and now we're going shopping!"

Jehan's face fell a little bit, but there was really no stopping her. She pulled him through the streets of Montparnasse until they reached a tiny little tailor's shop.

"Monsieur," she addressed the tailor, "my friend here is looking for some more interesting clothes."

"Certainly," the tailor said. "What did you have in mind, Monsieur?"

"Leaving," Jehan muttered.

"He was thinking about some affects from the last century," Luca explained for him. "A doublet or something? What do you think, Prouvaire?"

"This little lady sure has her own way of addressing you, huh, Monsieur?" the tailor joked.

"I don't think I could make her stop if I wanted," Jehan told him.

"Ah," the little man sighed. "Young love in the making."

"W-wha…?" Jehan stuttered.

"She is not your beloved?"

"No, Monsieur! She's just this girl."

"Just this girl?" Luca demanded. "You told me you loved me, Prouvaire!"

"Do you get some kind of sick enjoyment from pretending that we're in love?" Jehan asked, half-joking.

"Yes," Luca replied with a smirk. "But we're getting off topic. A bright blue doublet, Monsieur."

"Not anything quite as dated as a doublet," Jehan insisted. "Maybe something similar…"

"And three white shirts with lacy cuffs," Luca added.

"Only three?" the tailor asked.

"You're right, four."

"Luca," Jehan muttered. "This is _my _money that you're spending."

Luca turned on him and her face fell. "Please?" she asked, looking crushed.

Jehan watched her for a minute, trying with all his might to refuse the look on her face. "Fine," he murmured.

Her face instantly lit up. "Yes!"

"You tricked me!"

Luca smiled and shook her head. "You're an only child, aren't you?"

"Yes. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Excuse me," the tailor interrupted, "but are we going through with this order?"

"Yes, Monsieur," Luca said.

"Then follow me, good Monsieur. We must have you fitted."

"Lacy cravats too!" Luca called as Jehan was led away. "You can't have lacy sleeves without lacy cravats!"

Jehan gave a blustering sigh. "She'll be the death of me."

The tailor only smiled.

After he was done being fitted, Jehan watched the tailor move over to his price book. So this would be the moment of judgment.

"Three lace cravats, three lace-cuffed shirts, two doublet-type waistcoats…That all adds up to…sixteen francs and three sous. Do we have a price, Monsieur?"

"Like I said, I don't have a choice."

"Brilliant. I'll send for the young lady next week!"

"Luca," Jehan began as they left, "have I ever told you that you're crazy?"

"You usually say 'ridiculous,' but I think the sentiment is the same."

"You're not going to kiss me again, are you?"

Luca laughed at Jehan's worried tone. It felt good, Jehan thought, to join her for once.

"You know," he said a little bit later, "I stay down here so much that sometimes, when I'm drunk or exhausted, I think about just moving in. Not into your apartment, obviously, but somewhere nearby."

"Sounds reasonable," said Luca, trying to hide a smile.

"Do you know of any place that's available right now?"

"I can ask around."

"Thank you, Luca." Jehan was grinning now too.

Just then, the bells of the closest church tolled six.

"Oh!" Jehan exclaimed. "I've got to go!"

"Plans for this evening?" Luca asked, her grin replaced with a scowl.

"Café meetings are on Tuesday," Jehan assured her. "Monsieur Enjolras has invited me to dinner tonight."

"Oh," she said in a somewhat lighter tone. "Well, have fun. I'll let you know if I find anywhere for you."

"Thanks again," Jehan intoned. "You're the best."

He kissed her forehead and ran off, leaving Luca with a warm smirk on her face.

"Stupid boy," she mumbled, and then turned to go home.

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, but the last three weeks of summer are when my parents plan vacations. We're going to the beach this week, so there will probably be another long wait for the next chapter. R&R anyway! They brighten my life!**


	7. Open Doors

**A/N: Sorry for the late update, guys! Vacation got me all distracted.  
In other news, my community youth theatre is holding auditions for Les Miserables next week. I can't even begin do describe how happy that makes me, but if I get in, it will more than likely mean that my update rate will go down even more.  
Whatever. Enjoy!**

That night, Luca stayed up late into the night, staring into the fire with a pen in her hand.

"You'd better go to bed," Alexandre had told her, but she didn't seem to hear him.

She didn't stir for hours, until finally, inspiration seemed to strike. She scribbled madly on the page for a moment, but then she crumpled it up and threw it in the fire. A fresh sheet was found and placed before the flames. Again, she lost herself in some writing, and again, she threw it into the fire. This must've continued until three or four in the morning, because Alexandre found her there the next morning, fast asleep with ink all over her cheek.

"Luca," he whispered in her ear. The girl jerked awake, punching Alexandre in the face in panic.

Alexandre cried out in surprise. "Good God, Lucille, what's wrong with you? Do you sleep with a clenched fist?"

"I'd be sorry," she said, "but I think you addressing me with such an abominable name makes us even."

"Your given name isn't an abomination. Be proud of it."

"That's easy for you to say; you have a normal name."

"You have a normal name."

"Don't you have a job to get to?" Luca demanded.

"Seriously, you're acting strange," Alexandre said. "Come on; let's sit you on the couch."

Luca let him pick her up and set her down amongst the pillows.

"Now," he began, crouching in front of her, "what's wrong?"

"Weird dreams," she muttered. "Don't worry about it."

"What kind of dreams?"

Luca stayed silent.

"It's Prouvaire, isn't it? That's who you were writing about. That's why the dreams were weird."

She smiled weakly.

"You've liked worse people. He puts up with you."

"I don't even _write_ poetry, Alexandre."

"Sometimes, the people we meet who are the most different from us change us in the best ways."

"That doesn't mean I have to write poetry about them," she grumbled.

"You're right. You're just crazy." Alexandre laughed and stood up. "I have to go to work," he said, kissing her forehead.

"Love you," Luca called after him.

"Love you too."

Alexandre was almost out the door when he poked his head back in.

"I think we'll all be back late tonight," he said. "Can you take care of yourself?"

Luca narrowed her eyes and scowled. "Of course. Colette is coming over after lessons. I'll cook dinner for the two of us."

"Good girl! Love you!" Alexandre said, squirming under her glare.

"Get out."

Alexandre rolled his eyes and left as quickly as he could.

After a long day at work, Alexandre entered the Café Musain to the sounds of Joly and Bahorel playing at dominoes. Smiling, he left his coat at the door and began to make his way over there. A pair of warm hands on his shoulders stopped him.

"Hello Alexandre, my friend," Courfeyrac cooed in his ear.

"Cut it out, Courfeyrac," Feuilly snapped playfully. "No one would ever believe that you liked men."

"It's always worth a shot," the tall student said.

"Just make sure you don't frighten poor Prouvaire away," Combeferre commented from nearby. "Even Enjolras really likes him."

"Seriously?" Alexandre exclaimed. "Enjolras likes someone that isn't you?"

"Oh, shut up, Feuilly. Marcelin likes plenty of people."

"He calls him Marcelin?" Courfeyrac whispered in Feuilly's ear. "Now there's someone interested in men."

"I can hear you, Courfeyrac," Combeferre said calmly, "and I'd appreciate it if you kept your fantasies to yourself."

"They're not fantasies…" Courfeyrac muttered.

Feuilly noticed Enjolras' glow in the doorway then. "Sorry I'm late; Blondeau kept me back after class."

"Again?" Bossuet called from the back.

"Again," Enjolras confirmed. "Courfeyrac, stop snickering."

"The funny thing is," Courfeyrac said in another loud whisper, "I'm not snickering about that."

"I know you're not," Enjolras said.

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre began, "you really are the worst whisperer I've ever met."

"Maybe I do it on purpose."

"But you don't," someone crowed, causing the room to fill with laughter.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Are we going to get started or not? Where's Prouvaire?"

"Here I am!" Prouvaire rushed into the back room just as Enjolras said his name.

"You're late," Enjolras said coldly. "If this has to do with a woman, I swear…"

"Go easy on him, Enjolras," Combeferre instructed gently, appearing at his friend's side. "He's here, isn't he?"

"I suppose. All right, Prouvaire, come on in."

"He can be such a hypocrite sometimes," Courfeyrac muttered.

"Can it," Feuilly retorted. "He's just anxious. That stupid inspector has been tailing him for weeks; it was probably him that held him back at Blondeau's."

Jehan came over to join the pair. "What have I missed?"

"Nothing," Courfeyrac grumbled.

"Enjolras just got here," Feuilly explained. "Courfeyrac thinks he's a hypocrite."

Jehan, who was already enamored with their charismatic leader, looked taken aback. "You're a hypocrite!" he shot childishly.

"Shut up, Jehan," Courfeyrac said. "The meeting's starting."

"It must feel good to be telling someone else to shut up instead of the other way around," Feuilly muttered. Courfeyrac whacked him over the head.

"Bahorel," Enjolras was saying, "status report! How are our friends at the Barrière du Maine?"

"Not so hot," Bahorel told the group. "Dufort doesn't like us very much."

"Bunch of cowards!" one of the men cried out.

"That's no way to approach the situation," Combeferre chided. "Enjolras, perhaps it wasn't the best idea to send the boxer to make peaceful negotiations."

Bahorel looked mildly offended, but only Courfeyrac ever had the gall to snap back at the tranquil and stern philosopher during a meeting.

"Valid point," Enjolras said. "Sorry, Bahorel, but that's where our standing is the most delicate. Who do you think we should send, Combeferre?"

"I'll go," Jehan offered boldly. "I haven't proven myself yet."

"You don't have to prove yourself, Prouvaire," Combeferre said gently.

"If he's really so set on it…" Enjolras mentioned.

"Are you set on this?" asked the guide.

"I…yes. I'll do it."

"Brilliant," Enjolras said, flashing a rare smile. "Why don't you join Combeferre and me after the meeting for a briefing?"

"I'll do that too," Jehan said, and even he knew that there wasn't any good reason to blush just then.

The men chuckled at his shyness, causing him to duck his head.

"Okay, then, since that's settled, let's move on. Bossuet, in—how did you manage it again, Lesgle?"

"I fell out of a second-story window," the bald man chimed in. Several men winced or hissed in sympathetic pain at this.

"Right, well, Bossuet, in falling out of a second-story window, ran into the daughter of none other than our friend Lafayette. Since his luck isn't totally horrible all of the time, he convinced her to take him home—," wolf-whistles interrupted him here, "—so that he could rest comfortably while she sent for a doctor. Bossuet, tell the rest of the story, why don't you?"

"Right," said Bossuet with a cheerful laugh. "There I was, in the arms of the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, with blue eyes and golden curls swept back into a river that flowed down her back, and—."

"Bossuet," Combeferre interrupted gently, "I believe Enjolras wanted to hear about your meeting with Lafayette."

"Oh, yes," Bossuet said, laughing again. "Well, the man was just as magnanimous and friendly as any of us could have expected, and while I was alone with him in the parlor, I dared to bring up our noble cause.

"He was reluctant to discuss his political opinions at first, but soon he came to trust this unfortunate soul of mine. To be short, he says he will stand behind Enjolras completely if it comes to insurrection."

This brought about a round of cheers, and Enjolras was grinning ear to ear. Jehan had to blink a couple of times when he looked over at him—the man's face was as bright as the face of one of Michelangelo's angels.

The meeting continued in the same fashion for an hour or so, and after it was finished, Combeferre and Enjolras cornered him.

"Are you sure you're up to it, my friend?" Combeferre asked. "You're still so new to all of this."

"I can send Combeferre or Joly there in your place if you do not wish to go," Enjolras assured him.

"I will go," Jehan said with a sudden finality. "Tell me what to do."

Enjolras appraised him with esteem.

"I like you, Prouvaire, so I'm going to trust you with this. You just need to go down there and talk to the stone-cutters and painters. They don't like us, so be sensitive."

Prouvaire nodded earnestly, wondering if he could remember everything.

"Try and convince them that we're trying to help them," Combeferre added.

"Certainly," Enjolras agreed. "Don't let them scare you, Prouvaire."

"Got it. Should I tell them about our ideals? Mention what Enjolras said in his speech tonight?" Jehan asked frantically.

"Whatever you think needs to be said," Combeferre said. "You'll be fine."

Jehan left smiling, unaware that he was entangling himself in something fatal.

**R&R? It makes my life happy!**


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